Kline's Crews

Kline’s Crews

David E. Hanna

Copyright 2016 by David E. Hanna

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

Down Dante’s Highway

No! God, please! ¡No Dios, ¡Por favor! Laura white-knuckled the steering wheel and crushed the brake pedal with a force seemingly beyond the limits of her 105-pound body. Her voice stammered in a breathless, clipped plea to no one, or was it just her horrified reaction of pure terror in her mind that only she could hear, ¡Too fast! ¡Demasiado rapido!

Under stress or in rare scenes of heated passion, Laura’s Cuban Spanish boiled to the surface and clashed with her excellent Miami English.

Nausea flashed from the pit of her stomach to the back of her throat when she felt the tires of her speeding car begin to skid on the wet pavement. She pleaded, Hold! Please! Oh please! ¡Para! ¡Para! ¡Para! as her car slid toward the vehicles frozen in front of her at the crowded intersection.

In the split second between hyper awareness and unconsciousness, through the fog of fear, she imagined hearing the sickening dull thud of her car impacting the rear bumper of the much larger vehicle in front of her and envisioned the hood of her car buckling towards her. She turned her head and tightly clinched her dark brown eyes and braces-perfected teeth in anticipation of the air bag exploding into her chest and face.

Laura’s car came to a lurching halt a full two feet behind an exhaust-stained, dirty white delivery truck. Laura opened her eyes and read the hand-written Wash Me message finger-etched into the back of the truck stopped in front of her. No shards of glass. No hay cristal roto. No pungent smell, solo un olorfeo, of spewing antifreeze, she thought to herself. Dios Mio, she sighed. That was close. That was way too close.

She pressed her trembling, strained fingers against her throbbing temples, looked at her reflection in the rear-view mirror, and lectured herself out loud. Now Laura, you simply must slow down. This stinking rain makes the roads slick as glass, Slow down, Laura, slow down, despasio…despasio.

Laura leaned back in the seat and stretched her arms out over the steering wheel in an attempt to relax her aching forearms and hands. She ran her tongue across her parched lips and deeply exhaled a sigh of relief. She rolled her head from side to side in concert with the windshield wipers that struggled to banish the torrents of gust-driven rain. She yawned deeply to clear her throat of the residue of her fear-induced adrenaline rush. She also yawned to expel her thoughts in Spanish from her mind. While she was very proud of her Cuban heritage, she had come to think of speaking and even thinking in Spanish as unsophisticated, unprofessional, and far too intimate for common usage. Speaking Spanish pulled her back to her days as a bare-footed little girl who chased the banana wagon near her birth place in Havana. A place her family abandoned for a better life more than two decades ago when she was a small and somewhat sickly seven-year old.

Laura’s thoughts were suddenly ripped from the swaying wiper blades to the rearview mirror. It was there she saw the ghostly glare of the elevated headlights tumbling towards her. Her jaw involuntarily dropped as she sat dumbfounded staring at the bobbing and weaving reflection of the front grill of the mammoth garbage truck bearing down on her from behind. She knew the wet pavement would never allow the truck’s brakes to overcome its massive momentum to avoid colliding with her car. Twice before she had witnessed a similar sight; the last one cost her three weeks in a hospital. This time, she thought, the price would be much higher. She instinctively tightened all the muscles in her entire body, held her breath in anticipation of the crushing impact, and felt herself fainting from fear.

As if in ultra-slow motion, she watched the rear window of her car implode under the force of impact of the garbage truck’s front fork lift. She watched in stunned resignation as the cold, blunted end on the lift’s twin front forks penetrated and traversed the back passenger space of her car and stabbed into the back of her car’s front seats. She glanced down in near amusement as one of the forks emerged from the passenger seat and stabbed into the glove compartment. She then shifted her eyes to the filthy steel talon protruding from the center of her chest into the dashboard display in front of her. She was shocked and amazed how the metal probe could slice through her spine, pierce her abdomen and impale her against the steering wheel without her feeling much more than a little awkward pressure. The human body indeed had a marvelous defense system, she reasoned.

The blast of the truck’s horn jarred Laura back to full consciousness. Not understanding at first, she saw that the truck had come to a stop just inches behind her car. Now its driver was irritated that Laura failed to move with the change of the traffic light. Laura gasped an incredulous, ¡Jesus!, and punched the accelerator to the floor.

As she crossed through the intersection, the petite woman rocked her head back and forth and side to side to ease the tension that seemed to have established permanent residence between her shoulders. She couldn’t remember the last time she could turn her head without feeling the dull constraints of the twisted cables that seemed to tether the base of her skull to her shoulder blades. Man, she mumbled, I could certainly use a massage.

As she glanced at her right wrist to check the time, she momentarily focused on the white gloved hands of Mickey Mouse that flinched around the face of her wristwatch. Her ex had given her the juvenile timepiece as a twenty-fifth birthday present. He had hinted for weeks that he was going to give her a special piece of jewelry on her special day. After nearly four years of exclusively dating him, she was more than ready to accept his special gift of romantic jewelry as well as the proposal she knew would accompany it. She even told her few close friends that she would probably be announcing her engagement at her birthday celebration. But, instead of a ring, the immature rat surprised her with a ticking mouse on her special day. He then gnawed himself out of her life shortly after her party.

On the ugly, traumatic night he left, after he placed all the blame for their failed relationship on her naiveté and unrealistic expectations, Laura swore to herself that she would never let anyone get that close again. Her motto would become, Hurt me once, shame on you. Hurt me twice, shame on me. No one, she vowed, would ever hurt her like that again.

As fate would have it, a week after that traumatic birthday, Laura’s father died trying to stop an armed robbery that turned horribly violent. Laura took the sudden loss of the two most important men in her life like a stoic trooper and showed those around her how tough a woman could be. She refused to cry or show any signs of weakness. She refused to take any time off to grieve but she did make a shift in her career. She dedicated herself, heart and soul, to the business of serious journalism. She decided that she would no longer waste her professional talents and time on Lines from Laura. Four years of writing humorous insights and witty slice-of-life articles, regardless of how popular they had become, were far too many years dedicated to what she now considered nonsense. She would terminate such foolishness and focus on the world as it really is, not the romantic, family-centered, superficial, and idealistic facade she had lived and described in her articles.

A year later, she wasn’t entirely certain why she continued to wear the Mickey Mouse watch; sentimentality now had no place in her life. She now believed that a reporter must observe and write; not feel and interpret. Working as a crime/law reporter taught her that lesson very well and she quickly became recognized as an excellent crime reporter. Her well-rehearsed responses to questions about the watch were all variations of, I wear it as a constant reminder, as a warning, to be on my guard against rodents. In an ironic twist, as time passed, her world seemed to be more and more filled with vermin.

Crap! she exclaimed to her watch. She had an 8 AM appointment. It was already 8:15 and it would take at least another twenty minutes to get to her appointment. What the hell, she muttered to herself, I’ll get there when I get there. I still can’t believe Jack stuck me with this lousy, stupid, inane assignment.

Three days had passed since the heated exchange with her boss, Jack Burns, but she vividly remembered every single word of the encounter. Laura had burst through the door of Jack’s office and slammed a yellow piece of paper on his crowded, but orderly, desk. She followed her physical attack of his desk with a verbal one directed at him, What the hell is this, Jack? She paused for a split second; then belligerently rephrased the question, What in the holy hell is this, Jack? Her question was followed by a rant of nearly inaudible Spanish phrases undoubtedly not for the faint of heart.

The seated man slowly raised his grey streaked eyebrows from the document he was reading and looked up over the top of his wire-rimmed bifocals at the agitated woman hovering over his desk. He paused for a second studying the fire in her eyes, then nonchalantly glanced at the crumpled piece of paper she had jammed on his desk. He turned his head slightly to look at it, slightly nodded to himself, and then steadily looked back into her ocular furnaces. Well, he said softly, I believe that’s next week’s staff assignment sheet. If I’m not entirely mistaken, I believe it is your staff assignment sheet for next week.

His calm, nonchalant response to her heavily charged question inflamed her like gasoline hitting a fire. She leaned over his desk and repeatedly jabbed the paper with her forefinger while shouting angrily, This…this? Damn it, Jack, look at this! What in the hell is this?

Jack kept his eyes fixed on hers. He didn’t need to examine the sheet to know which entry had enraged her. He was actually a little surprised it had taken her this long to get to his office – she must have overslept again. He asked rhetorically, I assume you’re referring to your Monday morning assignment to interview B. J. Kline.

Bingo! she hissed. You’re damned straight that’s the assignment I’m talking about. Which one of your bumbling idiot Assistant Editors assigned me…me to a damned human interest story about a retired teacher? Me and an old, retired, burned out, elementary school teacher?

Jack rose stiffly from his chair. At nearly 6’2, he towered high above the 5’ tall woman. He stared down at her as he answered her caustic question. One of my assistants didn’t make this assignment. This bumbling idiot personally made that assignment."

Laura’s mouth fell open in shock but she quickly recovered. She leaned towards him and taunted, "Jack….Oh Jack! Earth to Jack Burns. This is Laura Hernandez speaking. Laura Suarez Hernandez is your chief crime slash law and order reporter. L. S. Hernandez has been doing the crime beat for more than a year now. Jack…Oh Jack! L. S. Hernandez doesn’t, that’s does not, do stupid, fluff pieces any longer. L. S. Hernandez does not do interviews with old, retired teachers unless they are related to, involved with, guilty of, or witness to a stinking crime. She no longer does insipid human interest stories, Jack. Lines from Laura is dead, buried, gone, and forgotten. I’ve done it. I’ve been there. I’ve bought the T-shirt. I’m done with it and will not – cannot – do them anymore. No more, nada, Jack. Is there any part of that you don’t understand?"

Jack smiled slightly, paused for effect, and then slowly bent over his desk until his face was inches from Laura’s. He looked into her eyes and said, You’ll do whatever assignment I choose to give you, Ms. Hernandez.

Laura flared, What is your frigging problem, Jack? Didn’t you hear me? I…don’t…do…human…interest…crap…any….more. I used to do them. Oh, I used to do the hell out of them for years. But I don’t do them now. In fact, I have absolutely no interest in human interest. In frigging fact, I have no interest in humans. I write about sub-humans, Jack. I write about child molesters, rapists, arsonists, wife beaters, murders, muggers, assassins, thieves…real hard news makers, Jack. I do not…I repeat and I emphasize the word…not…write about little, old, dried-up, retired teachers; especially, little, old, senile, retired elementary school teachers. The only retired people I write about are the scum retired to prison or permanently retired face down in the stinking, damned street.

Exasperated, Jack slammed his hand down on his desk and exclaimed, Right, Laura! And the last story you covered nearly got you retired face down in the street.

Laura scoffed, Oh, Jack, give me a frigging break. That’s a crock of pure crap. My car got in the way of a few stupid stray bullets. It wasn’t even close.

Jack moved his face even closer to hers, It was very, very, very close, Laura. He paused then continued in almost a whisper, An inch or less and you’d be dead! You’re getting reckless and you don’t even see it. Now you can blow your stack and curse me in English or Spanish, but it will not alter the facts. You need to take a step back and take a break from the type of action and the type of people you’ve been writing about. Period!

Laura decided to soften her approach. It may have been a little close, Jack, but not too close, she said flatly.

Jack saw an opening and took it. Softly he said, Laura, you were one of the most talented, creative columnists this industry has ever seen. I made a huge mistake letting you throw it away and granting you your wish. You made a mistake by letting your personal relationship problems and family situation taint your professional judgment. We’ve got to get you back to where you truly belong before it’s too late. Do the interview I scheduled for you on Monday. Give it your best, Laura, and let’s see where it takes you. I know it’s the right thing to do. Do it for me if you won’t do it for yourself.

Laura stood in silence for a few seconds, slightly rocking her body and rubbing her arms. Jack could almost see the thoughts racing through her mind as she appeared to be weighing her options of retort. She then dropped her hands and snarled, You know! You know what’s right for me? You dare comment on my personal relationships and my family situation? Situation! Let me tell you what I know. I know that I don’t need a damned, paper-pushing bureaucrat like you questioning my professional judgment. I know I’ve won more damned journalism awards than all your other sniveling reporters combined. I know more people read my articles than any of the other articles this paper prints. Sure, it’s been awhile since I won a major award, and my numbers may be down slightly, but that’s all due to politics and the bad economy. Hell, I know the jerks who vote on the awards are just jealous of me. They can’t handle a woman being a crime reporter, even a damned good one. And I know they especially can’t handle a good-looking female reporter they can’t ball.

Jack slammed his fist down on his desk, That’s enough, Laura! That’s more than enough! Now you listen to me. Jack pointed his forefinger toward her face for emphasis as he spoke in rapid bursts, You will read the background material on B. J. Kline that I put in your box. You will prepare questions for an in-depth interview. You will keep the appointment on Monday. You will conduct the best interview of your career. And, you will have a draft story on my desk by C.O.B. Wednesday. The intensity of his voice increased with each sentence, You will do what I, the Chief Editor of this newspaper and your direct supervisor, directs, no, orders you to do! You will complete the assignment that is documented on your Weekly Assignment Sheet. End of discussion.

Laura stood with a look of astonishment on her face. In the eight years she had worked for Jack, she had never seen him so agitated. Oh, they had argued before, but he had always remained cool. She could only remember a few rare instances when she had heard him raise his voice. He had always been her emotionally detached, professional mentor. Unlike her, he never let even their strongest disagreements get personal. In all the time he helped mold her career, he had never pulled rank on her. And, in all the time she knew him, he had never made such a stupid assignment.

Laura decided to try another approach. Now Jack, let’s all calm down a little. I can see now that this story, for whatever reason, is important to you. I’m truly flattered that you would pick me to do it. But don’t you think it would be an excellent opportunity for Gene or Susan? They’ve both been with us for less than a year and could use a career boost and I think Gene was a school teacher before he joined us. And Susan, she’s so sweet and I’ve heard she’s a great interviewer. She could really connect with a former elementary school teacher. Actually, I think either one of them could bring a whole new dimension to this very important story. Perhaps you could have them collaborate and conduct the interview together. That would cover all the bases and really impress the teacher. They would be quite a team. Laura smiled like a little girl who just asked her father to buy her a new pony.

Jack smiled and replied, Nice try, Laura, but I make the assignments around here and the assignment I gave you stands. I make the assignments, you take the assignments. Period, that’s it, end of discussion.

Laura ignited, Jack! I’m too damned busy for your little pet project. D C’s crime rate is going off the frigging charts. There’s an all-out drug war raging out there. The butchered bodies are piling up in the morgue and every one of them has a story to tell. And despite all of this, you’re sending your top crime reporter to the quaint western suburb of Reston, Virginia to interview a retired teacher? Are you out of your frigging demented mind Jack?

Jack gritted his teeth and pointed toward the office door, Get out of my office, Laura. We have nothing more to discuss. I’ll tell it to you straight and simple one last time, you need a change. The assignment stands. Now if you open that foul mouth of yours one more time, I am going to physically throw you out of my office. If you fail to complete this assignment, I will personally guarantee you that I will no longer be your boss. And, I will see to it that the only newspapers in this region that you have any contact with will be the ones you sell on the street corner. Now get out of my office and do your job. Keep your mouth shut and get out of my office, now. I mean it Laura, don’t make me lose my temper and get out of here. Now, Laura!

Jack! Laura pleaded.

Get out now, Laura! Jack commanded.

She stared at him, studying his face for a sign of weakness, for a look of doubt, for a hint of indecision, for an opening, for a chance. She saw none.

Now, Laura. Get out and do your job, he spoke with a final resolve.

Laura realized that she had lost the argument. She pivoted, jerked open the office door and literally growled as she charged out, slamming the door behind her. Yes, master boss man! I’ll do your frigging hair-brained assignment, Mr. Editor-In-Charge. I’ll just do the frigging hell out of it!

Again the blast of a horn behind her jolted her back to the present. The light was now green. She sped through the intersection, cursing Jack, the traffic, the rain, her stupid assignment, and the fricking elementary school teacher she had yet to meet.

After navigating through multiple imaged scenes of dismemberment, destruction, and gory death at six more gruesome intersections, after inhaling the toxic exhaust of two lumbering Metro buses she got stuck behind, after circumventing a fender bender and avoiding an unyielding bicyclist, Laura turned off the busy Rt. 7 onto a fairly quiet residential street. The rain had diminished to a light mist that made her wipers squeal as she slowly moved along the tree-lined avenue.

Laura glanced down at the directions she had written to herself on the back of an envelope. A right at Preston White to 2222, she repeatedly mumbled out loud. She slowed at each possible right turn to scowl at its green reflective street sign. The fifth sign proved to be the one she sought. After making the turn, her chant changed to Two, two, twenty-two, where the hell are you?

After four blocks of intense scrutiny, she found the house with the mailbox bearing the redundant digit. Rubber ground against the concrete curb as she pulled her car to a stop. Driving was not Laura’s forte, especially driving in a thunderstorm in a strange area with visions of death, dismemberment and destruction at every turn.

Laura killed the engine and then focused on her face in the rearview mirror. She raked her fingers through her short black hair to bring a semblance of order to the rain induced, unruly chaos. She paused for a moment to press away the wrinkles that gathered at the corners of her eyes, ran across the curves of her eyelids, and crisscrossed her forehead. She grimaced when they reappeared after she released them from the pressure of her fingertips. She instinctively pulled a compact from her purse, then glanced back at the reflection in the mirror and grumbled, To hell with it.

Laura tossed the plastic cosmetic disc back into her purse then glanced again at her watch. Christ! It was 8:45 AM. But she didn’t care. Close enough for an old biddy, she thought. Besides, the old bag is retired, she’s probably still in bed. That’s certainly where I’d be right now if I was retired. She chuckled to herself at the thought of ever being retired.

Laura reached across the front seat and grabbed her small, portable tape recorder and spiral-bound steno pad. She paused and then tossed the recorder back to its place on the seat. Why waste the battery? she thought. The recorder broke open when it hit the seat and the tape spewed onto the floor. "Damn, another trashed recorder. Whatever! Jack may be able to force me to take this stupid assignment, but I’m in charge now. I’ll blow through this damned interview and be back in the